When I am thinking about voice and creating ‘the’ line for a brand, I think about that bit in Extras where Ross Kemp says ‘Super Army Soldiers’ to Ricky Gervais.

Stay with me on this…

Ross leans in, corrects his posture, looks Ricky in the eyes and says the words, ‘Super. Army. Soldiers.’

Ross is so clear and confident that what he is about to say is absolutely correct. But of course it isn’t.

So, when I am thinking about voice and creating ‘the’ line for a brand, why do I think about that bit in Extras where Ross Kemp says ‘Super Army Soldiers’ to Ricky Gervais?

It’s because of how Ross’s character must have felt when saying it. Eyes-on-eyes certain that the words were absolutely perfect. That’s exactly how I feel when I nail the line. I am so confident about it that I want to deliver the line to the client in exactly the same way as Ross delvered ‘Super Army Soldiers’ to Ricky. But without the line being laughable. And without the client laughing. Which, thankfully, I do manage to achieve. Mostly.

So yes. I know it’s strange. But when I am thinking about how to deliver ‘the’ line for their brand, that I have created, to my client, I feel a bit like Ross Kemp  in Extras, when he says ‘Super Army Soldiers’ to Ricky Gervais.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stgllEinWow)

Creativity, as a tool/approach/mantra/religion/whatever – for most people reading this right now – has just one purpose. Selling things.

It’s easy to forget that. It’s easy to get carried away with the colour. The font. The line or the idea.

With clients I’m helping, I always start at the end (not the beginning), with the same conversation. How many are we trying to sell? To whom? By when? This question colours everything we do together. And if we don’t ask such things, we’re just polishing. Facelifting. Prettifying things for ourselves.

Creativity, as a tool/approach/mantra/religion/whatever – for most people reading this right now – has just one purpose. Selling things.

Some things sound the same. Or maybe even look the same. But they’re not the same.

Last night, Izobel read me a question from The Ultimate Book of Useless Information (Noel Botham). Izobel asked me: ‘What’s an anagram?’

I answered as would you. Job done, I thought. But an 8 year old Izobel’s puzzled frown suggested otherwise. ‘No’. She said. ‘That’s an anagram. I know what an anagram is. I asked you this,’ and turned the page to face me.

It turns out that Noel Botham’s Ultimate Book of Useless Information contains the following useless information, ‘The average smell weights 760 nanograms.’ Prompting Izobel to ask, ‘What’s a nanogram?’ Prompting me to explain what an anagram was. Prompting Izobel’s puzzled frown. Prompting me to smile. Prompting me to write this.

Some things sound the same. Or maybe even look the same. But they’re not the same.

(I was reminded of this twice last week. Once with Izobel’s question. And once when I bought Choco Break instead of Kit Kat from Lidl. Bloody awful).

It is possible to try too hard. Eyes too wide. Teeth too clenched. Fists too tight.

Back when I had a £1m+ wage bill I, sometimes, probably, definitely, pushed too hard with new business development. And as a consequence – lost. Nowadays, I pootle along. Saying what I think. Doing what I can. And working relationships, somehow, arrive.

I went to my first wedding aged five. My first tie. My first shirt (probably). And my first introduction to confetti.

‘Open your hand,’ my mum said, looking down. So I did. And seconds later she rained colourful paper confetti into my palm.

‘Now. Hold tight!’ She said. ‘Don’t drop it. And when the bride comes close… throw!’

I was nervous. This was quite a responsibility for a tiny person, stood outside the church on a hot summer day. Waiting. My heart quickening. My confetti-filled fist tightening. And I was sweating.

After an age, the bride arrived and, when she did appear in front of me I – as instructed – launched! A small, colourful, golf-ball sized paper mâché confetti ball bounced off her forehead and rolled back towards me on the ground. I stared at it, mission not quite accomplished. And a little tear appeared in my eye as I stared up at the smiling adults.

It is possible to try too hard. Eyes too wide. Teeth too clenched. Fists too tight.

I’m not a talker. Well, I am. Just not much about me personally. And I should talk more about me. It unearths things.

For a podcast last month I was asked about my favourite biscuit. It’s Bourbon Biscuits. I like Bourbon Biscuits, mostly, for the same reason Christopher Hitchens liked Jonnie Walker Black Whiskey. ‘Easy to get. Not too expensive. Decent. Or so I thought.

You see, I came out of the podcast with a new realisation about Bourbon Biscuits. I remembered something.

In my early teens, things were tricky at home. Anger. Controlling behaviour. Abuse. And, by talking about my love of Bourbon Biscuits I remembered how, shorty after leaving home, I ate a whole packet. But I didn’t just bite them. I split them open and, one-by-one, scraped the chocolaty goo off with my teeth. I remember that I was teary at the time. Feeling a bit sick. But happy. Because four biscuits was the limit at ‘home’. And splitting them was, I was told, wrong.

Freedom to be me is such a gift. I wonder what I’ll do next? Custard Creams maybe. If I’m feeling particularly adventurous.

I’m not a talker. Well, I am. Just not much about me personally. And I should talk more about me. It unearths things.

Early in the client relationship. Me as Brand chap. I’m only asking one question of the person I’m helping. And that question is:

“What is it you’re actually trying to say?”

I have a certain look on my face as I lean forward, head to one side, with my nose 2 millimetres from their nose – and ask this question. My two hands are on their upper arms, shaking the client vigorously back and forth. My expression suggesting I’m in pain. I look like I’m squinting through smoke as I shout the question over and over. Like a cop from a 1970’s drama.

“What is it you’re actually trying to say?”

Occasionally, my client starts to cry.

But mostly, the client tends to stutter in response. Words climb over each other and, the more the client says, the less the client says.

It’s fine. It’s funny. The whole process should feel like fun. As we realise – together – how hard it is to be concise, clear and heartfelt.

“What is it you’re actually trying to say?” is a good question.

Especially because the answer should be just one, efficient, clear and palatable sentence.

Tricky.

I suppose I must be quite persuasive. I recall the first thing I did, once I’d persuaded Sunderland University to appoint me as their Internet and Multimedia Specialist, was buy a computer. And learn how to turn one on.

This week, I chatted with a client about the difference between rational persuasion and psychological persuasion. As a nailed-on expert in neither, I asked an important question:

“How, when chatting to prospects, can we make it feel like we are marching purposefully away from them, smiling back over our shoulder, beckoning, “Come on! This way! It’s going to be brilliant!” So that they follow. Rather than staring straight at the audience. Arms open. Trying to get their attention and persuade them that your way is the best way.

The answer is to persuade psychologically, not rationally.

In short, emotion beats logic. Show them ‘what if’ not ‘what is’. Show them what you believe, not what you know. Exploring the new connects more than exploiting the known. And don’t allow the logic to kill the magic.

The answer is to persuade psychologically, not rationally.

…

NOTE: The precisely worded notion that ‘Logic kills magic’ is borrowed from the very fine Rory Sutherland.

Izobel is, for now, a vegetarian. As an 8 year old that cares about animals, Izobel no longer wants to eat them.

I’ll support Izobel for as long as this lasts. One week. One lifetime. Whatever. So at the weekend we went to our local town’s, ‘Only Purely Vegetarian and Vegan Eatery’ (nice headline).

I wanted to show Izobel that vegetarianism can be inventive, colourful and nutritional. And not just the dumb, unimaginative, arbitrary removal of meat from the menu. My plan – take Izobel to see this in action! At the ‘Only Purely Vegetarian and Vegan Eatery’ in town (nice headline).

When we arrived, it took me 10 seconds to understood exactly HOW they’d created the ‘Only Purely Vegetarian and Vegan Eatery’ in town (nice headline). It was by the dumb, unimaginative, arbitrary removal of meat from the menu.

Egg on toast, £5. Beans on toast, £5. Egg and beans on toast, £7. Omelette, £7. Vegetarian breakfast, £10. Complete shite.

I was sad and angry for three reasons.

1. I can’t stand lazy thinkers.
2. I spend (part of) my life helping businesses find, and headline, magic. Headlining crap is stupid.
3. £7 for an omelette.

Headlines Schmedlines. And off we went.

All humans, brands and businesses, have a ‘way’. And to be fulfilled and noticed for the right reasons, all we have to do is have the courage to express it.

If we’re brave enough, we appear clear, forthright and honest. We look you in the eye. Because we’re just being ourselves… our ‘way’.

I chatted about this to a friend, pondering how to grow his business. He didn’t know HOW to be (his words). So we explored WHO to be instead (my words). And of course, he should be himself. And of course, this led to a focus on his ‘way’.

I love the photography of The Twins. They’re North East based wedding photographers (link below). In a world of sameness, I think, their work is beautiful and different. They have a ‘way’.  How they use light and crop images. Some will like it. Some won’t. And that’s fantastic.

Because all humans, brands and businesses, have a ‘way’. And to be fulfilled and noticed for the right reasons, all we have to do is have the courage to express it.

https://www.instagram.com/thetwinsweddings/

I suppose it’s that old, ‘nothing matters except everything’ thing.

In my mind, a certain kind of B2C brand could have a lovely, helpful ‘Customer Care’ link in the footer of their ecommerce store that, when clicked, launches the email address ohwhatthefuckdoyouwantnow@businessname.com.

I like things like this because, from this one little detail, you and I can imagine what the business might sell, who to, and even what the product might say about the people who buy it.

Cool, punky, quality clothing. For confident 25 to 40 year olds that don’t take themselves too seriously. That like stand-out gear.

Yes. That fits. And the email address makes me smile.

It’s great when we get into the details. Tone of voice. Language. Lovely little surprises. It makes us more memorable.

I suppose it’s that old, ‘nothing matters except everything’ thing.